Reality obliterates.
An overdose of anything is bad.

I saw you standing by the gate of my castle one night.

It’s a fight, baby, a fight.
I’d rather not bring this up now, now or ever.

Poised to evolve, to create and be,
Ah, this mystery. It is not for me.

Twenty nine, you said. I wish.
Now your cue: ‘It was only a kiss – how did it end up like this.’

Poles split apart. Lives break.
Dices’ fate?
Never too late
For you and I to make
it.

Priorities, priorities. We all must have some.
Or that’s what I was told.
By someone old
and presumably wiser than I.

I don’t think I understand yours.
To be so clear now, so transparent, may not bode well for me.

Anyhow, the problem persists. I do not know.
I can only make sense of what you show.

Like a teacher, a guide, a mentor might.
But ah. What if the disciple lacks the insight?

Inside me. Inside you. Inside something beautiful.
Flew away, flew away: that one and her nuances.
And left us with this wonderful,
Incorrigible mess of things.

Like twisting beads into a big ball of yarn.
Or letting the dog mangle it up with salivating earnestness.

The beads, they make all the difference.
And you are my beads.
Of all shapes (mostly round),
Of all sizes (mostly large),
Of all colours (mostly nothing – mostly them all.)

And you know what? I like colours.

Colour me unrecognizable

(By anyone but you.)
There was no other
I could give myself to.

I cant ascertain
Whether it’s me I lost, or gained.
You I made proud, or shamed.
Respect lost, or love regained.

This would be easier in nonsense verse.
Flibbertigibbet very nicely puts me in retrospect.

What am I doing?
I can’t phrase poetically,
Much less understand what I say.

It may be for you to know.
For you only, for you forever.

Hide this.

How I wish I could grow up.
The lines I perceive as mature understanding.
Crumble under their critical eyes.
And they are right: no lies,
Justice is not in my favour.

How I wish I could grow up.
Be sophisticated, beautiful, kind.
Upright, strong willed, as she is.
But I am I, in my awkward grace,
And it is not to be.

How I wish I were alive.
Immune to frivolous banter of all sorts,
Breathing in the air of each moment I live,
Sharing everything I have to give,
Laughing, crying, hurting wholeheartedly.

How I wish I were memorable.
The girl who helped us all, our friend.
She’s within reach, yet in an unchanging abyss,
I’m almost there, but I always miss
Her; Standing in front of the mirror.

How I wish I had control.
Over my emotions, my thoughts,
Insecurities, fears, doubts, concerns,
And on my heart, every little burn,
To be able to resist temptation.

How I wish I was understood.
Scouring eyes would find me, inside.
Solve the puzzle; fix it;
The pieces, together, a perfect fit;
And it would be duly appreciated.

How I wish I could grow up.
Move with integrity, honesty, frankness,
A fiery mix of pain, friendship and love.
Ravishing; stunning; exquisite;
And the phoenix would rise from the ashes.

I find it not in daffodils.
Not in the sky, the sea, the range.
Not even when I rearrange
the thoughts with which my head fills.
(Which I often do)

No place where I am truly alone,
And I have to interrupt my life for this.
Its not as though my thoughts are my only refuge,
Because my stream of consciousness is that -
I want food, I want sleep, nothing more and nothing huge.

I want for nothing, and nothing wants for me.
Best left alone in my own private purgatory?
Like the women in poetry.
But I want some things.
And some of them want me.

I want certainty in more things than death.
If I had certainty in one variable, maybe I could fix it.
Measure the length and breadth.
And finally, subtract the area from a number of my choice.

At last I draw a blank.
A blank that engulfs even that corner of my mind I haven't come across.
I know, I'm not the kind to walk the plank.
I am nothing, none and nobody. At best.
In no mood, no form, to put words to this mouth. The words stank.

And perhaps this is unrelated to the changes that pour.
Its me. I changed as you changed, so we became.
And I won't let you leave me so alone. So poor.
With nothing exquisite and nothing to show.
For me, for you.

We are it. All. Everything.
And then I go and make this choice that messes with the order of things and I want to refrain but I want it too but the work required is
too hard to do.
Too ****** hard to do.

I don’t want to have to rhyme all the
time.
***** this.

“Ah”, you say. “The makings of modern
poetry.”

A hundred ways to think of it, and not
one of them true.

You know what?
*******.